the land is crossed like the palm of a hand.
long lines lead between fingers and thumb -
crossed with the ...
I took two sips of the river’s dream
then sank. fire I was promised - so I burn
a star in ...
a blowtorch from Spain burns the sky blue.
from its white nozzle - sun welds the earth
onto day - the dry ...
I too visit the bee-eyed lavender
not to join their vertical bee-walk
but to watch the eyeballs meander
and match ...
Ravel is Chopin playing in the night
without a candelabra. a nymph
in water - a corpse once packed tight
midsummer is the mirrors’ fevered
lustre in the twilight. pupils play
back déjà vus - not the glass cleaving
so as ...
people try to tell other people
about their lives. some give up as they grow
older. belief in stories gets ...
the rare rain on the semi-desert town
produces a festival of weeds
flowers and foliage that closes down
early. the ...
the fog apparent half a mile away
was enough to make it strange country
altered from the one I knew ...
what basilisk or cockatrice is this ?
a dragonfly combined with moth perhaps
the size of a small bird too broad ...